


Kin I Git Yew Some Coffee, m'lady?

by Zoya1416



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Accents, Adjustments to Another world, Being a Mother, Being an Empress, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8418151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: What Laisa still hates.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/pseuds/DesertVixen) in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> I'm interested in how Empress Laisa/Laisa the woman deals with Barrayar - looking for more focus on her rather than the couple.

Laisa sat in their private garden drinking coffee, thinking of the differences she still felt on Barrayar after eight years. It was still alien in some ways.

It wasn't just the open air. She'd spent a year on Earth studying how financial systems had evolved since wormhole travel transformed everything. It had been educational, and she'd been able to accumulate many friends and colleagues. She still thought wistfully of the fantastic places she'd toured, and wondered when she'd be able to travel that far again.

She'd gotten used to open air on Earth.

Barrayar wasn't only the primitive political system. She'd met more regressive, but those were on Larouiba and Zoave Twilight, in the far corners of the nexus. Besides, she was on top of the system on Barrayar.

It was—what? The way that modern and old-fashioned, even archaic, ways of life survived together, stacked on top of each other. Vorbarr Sultana still resisted total gentrification. You didn't get that in Komarr—most older buildings were sanded down, cut up, remodeled for new purposes. There wasn't enough room in most domes to keep old buildings.

There were levels of society everywhere, but few as—exuberant in their poverty, if that was the right word. Count Vorkosigan ruled one of the poorest Districts on the planet, yet instead of hiding its poverty, and, here was the real mystery, doing everything possible to change it quickly, he let progress come slowly, and enjoyed the idea that he still bonded with the mountain hillfolk. Because he would still come out and get drunk with them, it seemed.

The Count was beloved primarily because his father had fought in the Cetagandan War, she thought—she stopped herself from thinking more about that. Komarr and Barrayar had each paid terrible prices. Komarr had been seen as a people interested only in filling their own coffers, a people who “Let the Cetagandans in on us,” as she, the Empress, had actually been told to her face. What could we have done? she used to fume. We had no military. They would have rolled right through the wormholes and taken us by force, and—a useless line of thought. 

And the Vorkosigan District apparently bought into the idea of the cult of personality, because the Dendarii people loved him, and Miles, and Ekaterin. She suspected that the Count, and Miles, had no idea how many tiny little towns worshiped Ekaterin almost as much as themselves. She'd brought so many biological enhancements to the hill people, from other districts, mostly, so she didn't have to re-invent the wheel. Tougher, thicker grass which would hold more moisture and prevent erosion—the Vordarians had that one. Plants which were more cold-resistant—from a small research station near Kyril Island.

More productive wheat and soybeans—this was not a novelty, and many districts had this. Always tuned to the esthetics, she got farmers in the lower, more temperate areas to sow particularly lovely flowers, which were carried to market from roads she'd had the Count build. The flowers got to Vorbarr Sultana fresh enough for the fanciest flower shops. All this while raising 4 children! She admired Ekaterin Vorkosigan very much.

The Vorkosigans had very few citizens—(no, they were not citizens. They were subjects.) Very few, anyway, who had voted with their feet and left. Whereas she'd visited far wealthier Districts, the Vorpatril for one, which was almost all modernized, very little poverty—and its subjects griped and complained, and—left for greener fields. That was one thing. That dichotomy. 

Soldiers everywhere in their home? The Counselors of Komarr hadn't had to put down civil wars twice in the last century, so she'd gotten used to it. Her family employed many servants, too, so that wasn't different. Spies, open and not? Well, sabotage was real, everywhere.

What then, made her feel most alien here, still not attached to the planet after eight years?

Fires, for one thing. A dome dweller could never get used to indoor fires—they were Class A1 emergencies, and had caused the evacuation of half of the last dome which had experienced one. She still remembered the acrid smell of burned plastic.  
She, Cordelia, and Duv Galeni (and what a kindness it was to have a Komarran friend here!) had talked about it. Cordelia had been born in a dome, but she'd had years on Survey so she didn't fear fire, outdoor, anyway, as much. Duv and Cordelia both agreed with her incredulity that there were so many trees here, so many millions of them, that they could be casually cut down and used for—not even just for heat, but for a pleasant background.

Although wood made an incredibly beautiful material for floors—that parquet floor in the ballroom would be put up for display on Komarr. 

Wood was lovely. Gregor always collected modern artists and sculptors, for their Residence as well as for his offices. She took joy in finding wood sculpture, especially traditional styles. She'd even created a co-operative for artists who could then sell wooden sculptures off-world, for a nice housekeeping profit. 

Sunlight, greenery everywhere, no need to wear a mask—she'd actively, enthusiastically, embraced these. Although thunderstorms—she thought she'd never get used to them. She tried very hard to keep from showing it to the children, but at night with the lightning—Gregor was warm and protective, and she still needed to hold him tight after all these years.

Possibly it was—as her own four children came trooping into her garden, causing her to quickly send the servant for pastries and lemonade—possibly it was because unlike so many places in the Nexus, she could have as many children as she wanted. All she could take care of. 

Of all things, what still seemed the most unusual was how her children spoke!

She prided herself on learning four Barrayaran languages flawlessly, and being able to converse fluently in four more galactic ones, and still—

You would think that the Emperor's and Empress's children wouldn't have much of a lower class accent, and indeed, she'd made a good job of punishing them for it, but their own servants had that twangy accent and it persisted. She was constantly having to prune it back. 

“Ma, Sasha hyet me!”

“He hyet me baak!”

“Tuuu estupide!” 

“Yawl'r being meeen to me!”

“Traays mall, K'rreeena!”

Duv had admitted the same thing. He adored Delia and the children, and the Koudelkas were high-prole, but there were still—variations—in Delia's speech. You could call it an accent and be done with it. That was one thing she didn't admire Ekaterin for. It seemed to make no difference to her at all how the children spoke. Well, she'd grown up on the—less civilized wasn't the right word. Less—urbanized—South Continent.

Laisa's were very good when at school with galactic children, and the—variations—were happening less frequently, but not fast enough for her. It was at home they relapsed. 

It wouldn't be so irritating if she hadn't had to devise ways to reward them for the good, instead of—well, Komarrans didn't beat their children. But there were many psychological torments instead. 

Punish and reward, reward and punish, she thought wearily. You could have as many children as you wanted, but if you didn't stay close enough to raise them, it didn't matter.

“Children! Show me how you would greet the children of the Escobaran Ambassador. Practice with me. I'll give three chocolates to the best one.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written by someone who had to practice ages to learn how to say "get."


End file.
